


Martha

by pkmoonshine



Category: Bonanza
Genre: Canon - TV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-09
Updated: 2011-10-09
Packaged: 2017-10-24 11:09:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pkmoonshine/pseuds/pkmoonshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe’s never met a gal quite like Martha.   Question is, will he survive the experience.</p><p>All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are property of their respective owners.  The original characters and plot are property of the author.   The author is not in any way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise, and makes no money from this work.  No copyright infringement is intended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Martha

“N-No . . . no . . . danged . . . cussed . . . ornery . . . female . . . is gonna get the b-best of . . . of Joseph . . . Francis . . . Cartwright!” Joe passionately vowed, as he and the female in question battled with all their might . . . with all their strength, and fierce, stubborn determination for dominance.

It was unusually hot, even by the standards of what passed for a typical mid to late summer day in the dry, desert like climate in the High Sierras. The thick, oppressive heat had a tangible quality to it, every bit as solid as the dry, packed earth below his feet and the tall, ponderosa trees surrounding them. His cheeks, neck, and forehead were flushed scarlet, and the thin sheen of sweat covering the exposed portions of his anatomy gleamed dully in the hot sun, climbing slowly, inexorably toward zenith.

SHE, however, had yet to shed so much as a single drop of perspiration.

 

From the journal of Joseph F. Cartwright, dated July, 13, 18--

Did you ever meet a gal that you knew was gonna be something special, the moment you first set eyes on her? I’m not talking about the kind of special a man looks to marry and spend the rest of his life with, heaven forbid! I want to make that clear from the git go. The kind of special I’m talking about is the gal who comes into a man’s life, like a lion more often than not, but sometimes like the meekest newborn lamb. She’s different from every gal the man’s ever met, and somehow he knows, ‘way deep inside him, he KNOWS, that once they part company, he’ll never meet anyone like her ever again. For the time she’s with him, she turns his whole life upside down, and for extra and special measure, spins it ‘round and ‘round and ‘round, ‘til he’s so dizzy he can’t see straight or walk more than maybe half a dozen steps or so, without falling down flat on his face.

Martha was MY that kind of special gal.

 

 _The first time Joe ever set eyes on Martha was a bitter cold Thursday morning, in the middle of April, in Virginia City. She stood out in the street, right in front to the entrance to the Bucket of Blood Saloon, wearing a threadbare wool coat, the same lead gray color as the sky overhead. Her legs, what could be seen of them below the hem of her coat, were stick-thin. She was filthy, and that thick, black mane framing her face, in desperate need of combing. Most of the men, patronizing the Bucket of Blood the day Martha arrived in Virginia City, walked by without so much as sparing her a single glance._

 

 _Joe Cartwright might have numbered among them, had he not caught sight of that spark of fire within the depths of those great big beautiful brown eyes . . . ._

 

“Joseph?!” Ben queried, anxious and dismayed.

Joe entered the house with a pronounced limp, eliciting a pained grimace from his father every time he put weight on his injured, swollen left foot. His hat and green jacket were missing, along with three of the buttons on the filthy, tattered remains of his shirt. The large, irregularly shaped holes in his pants revealed a pair of scraped, bloodied knees.

“ . . . wh-what in thunderation happened to YOU??”

“She KICKED me,” Joe groaned softly, as he paused before the credenza to remove his gun belt, holster and weapon. His movements were awkward and stiff, like those of an elderly man, stricken with severe arthritis.

Ben noted the myriad of cuts and abrasions covering his forearms, chest, and face with fast sinking heart. “Who kicked you, Son?” he pressed.

“Martha?” Adam queried, not without a measure of sympathy, his eyes moving down the entire length of Joe’s cut, battered, and bruised frame.

“Martha,” Joe replied through clenched teeth.

 

From the journal of Joseph F. Cartwright, dated July 14, 18--

When I hear the name Martha, I think of a very practical, very down-to-Earth housewife, kinda plump, with healthy red cheeks, wearing a flowered housedress and a clean white apron. I think of the Martha, in the Bible, who lived in Bethany with her sister Mary, and brother, Lazarus. I also think respectable and gracious, the way I picture Martha Washington.

A far cry . . . a VERY far cry indeed from MY Martha . . . .

 

 _She was the absolute epitome the consummate actress, standing so demurely outside the Bucket of Blood Saloon with head slightly bowed, eyes half closed, while the man, in whose company she had traveled for the better part of the last year, sold her to a stunned young man wearing a green jacket and cream colored hat for twelve dollars and a bottle of rotgut whiskey. The formidable talents of the Lotta Crabtrees and Adah Menkens in the world paled by comparison._

 _She left Virginia City with that young man wearing a green jacket and cream colored hat, without protest._

 _“She looks good, Joe,” Hoss declared with a broad grin, after he and his younger brother had removed her coat. “Good muscle tone . . . good teeth . . . give her a bath ‘n a good brushin’ ‘n you’ll have yourself a real beauty.”_

 _“ . . . and you actually paid twelve dollars and a bottle of whiskey for her?” Adam queried incredulously, with left eyebrow slightly upraised._

“Yep,” Joe replied, grinning from ear-to-ear.

 _“Twelve dollars . . . ‘n a bottle o’ whiskey,” Hoss murmured softly, wagging his head back and forth in complete bewilderment. “You got yourself a real steal there, Li’l Brother . . . . ”_

 _“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Adam said grimly._

 _“The man who sold her to me said HE won her in a poker game,” Joe said, his voice filled with righteous indignation. “A poker game! Can you imagine?”_

 _“Poor li’l gal,” Hoss murmured softly. “She . . . got a name, Joe?”_

 _“Martha,” Joe replied. “The man I bought her from told me her name is Martha.”_

 _. . . and all the while she meekly stood in their midst, with head bowed, eyes half closed, the perfect picture of docile submission. Little did he realize, she was quietly taking his measure._

 

Ben’s tranquil, contemplative mood evaporated the minute his youngest son entered the dining room with “that look” on his face. He walked with a slight limp, and he no longer grimaced with each move, thanks, no doubt, to good long soak in a tub full of water, hot as the young man could stand, and a liberal application of Hop Sing’s ointment. An anxious, dubious frown deepened the lines already present in Ben’s forehead. “Joseph  
. . . . ”

“Pa, I can do it,” Joe said with fierce determination, his eyes flashing with emerald green lightening.  
“I’ve got her number.”

“You’ve been saying that for the better part of a week now,” Ben said, his voice filled with exasperation and concern, “and everyday, you’ve come in more banged up than you did the last. Maybe you should let Adam or that new man . . . . ” His voice trailed off into silence as he tried to recall the name of the man he and Adam had recently hired to help them break a string of horses recently brought in off the range.

“Johnny Lightly [i], Pa?” Adam queried.

“Yes. Johnny Lightly,” Ben said.

“Pa . . . I can handle her,” Joe insisted.

“Seems t’ me ol’ Martha’s been doin’ a real bang up job o’ handlin’ YOU!” Hoss quipped with a broad grin.

Joe turned and glared venomously at Hoss, before turning again to appeal to his father. “I mean it, Pa  
. . . I have her number now. I CAN do this.”

 _“So like his mother . . . . ”_ Ben silently mused . . . with that chin and jaw set with fierce stubborn determination, that thunderous scowl, and eyes nearly consumed with flames the color of fine emeralds. It was a waste of time, energy, and effort to deny Marie when she looked at him like that, and her son was no different. “Alright!” he groused aloud, surrendering ungraciously to the inevitable. “Alright! But if she gets the better of ya again . . . . ” His scowl deepened as his voice trailed away to an ominous silence.

“She won’t!” Joe declared. A feral grin slowly spread across his lips. “No danged, cussed, ornery female’s . . . . ”

 

“ . . . g-gonna . . . get . . . the b-best . . . of . . . Joseph . . . Francis . . . Cartwright!” Joe snarled through clenched teeth, outwardly determined, inwardly fearing he was already fighting a loosing battle. His sodden curls were plastered against his head, and his shirt clung to his back and chest. Every muscle, every joint in his body screamed in agonizing protest with every toss, every bone jarring thud.

How long had they been at it, the agonized grunting and groaning, the kicking the ups and downs, one after the other in rapid succession, each one every bit as jolting as an explosion of dynamite or nitroglycerin . . . all in a desperate wrestling match for determine who was going to finally, forever, and for all time come out on top?

Had it been five minutes?

Ten?

Joe was already bone weary. The world around him began to spin faster, faster, ever faster. Whether from dizziness or from the endless circles she kept him going ‘round and ‘round in, he would never know. His breath came in ragged gasps; and his legs, his arms, his fingers had very quickly turned to jelly. Twice now he had felt her body slip out from under him. The first time he had easily righted himself; the second . . . he hung on, barely, by the proverbial skin of his teeth.

Martha, however, was fresh as a daisy, and in the paraphrased words of the patriot, John Paul Jones, she had not yet begun to fight.

“Ummm um!” Hoss grunted, shaking his head with a mixture of astonishment and a new respect. “Ornery cuss . . . . ”

“Which one?” Adam queried, speaking softly, almost reverently, his voice filled with dread apprehension.

 

Martha feinted to the left, then with a soft grunt and a graceful arch of her back, kicked her legs up as high and as hard as she possibly could. Joe sailed up high over her head, with arms and legs flaying, barely aware that he was airborne. He landed on the ground with a hard, sickening thud, roughly three yards from Martha’s feet.

Martha eyed her defeated opponent and arch nemesis dispassionately for a moment, then started toward him, moving at a slow, steady gait.

Adam and Hoss exchanged horrified glances, before leaping from their perches atop the corral fence in unison, and beating a straight path on a direct intercept course toward Martha, and their youngest brother, lying sprawled on the ground, his form ominously still. Martha lifted her head and gently pawed the ground to the right of Joe’s head. Hoss gritted his teeth and lengthened his stride, passing Adam as if he were standing still.

“HOSS! GRAB HER BRIDLE! ANYTHING! JUST GET HER AWAY FROM JOE!” Adam called after Hoss, as he surged ahead.

Martha, meanwhile, lowered her head and gently nudged Joe’s side with her nose. She cocked her ears, and gazed down at him quizzically for a moment, before gently nudging him again.

“HOSS!” Adam cried, fearful for one brother’s well-being, and appalled that the other had inexplicably slowed his pace to a walk.

“No, Adam . . . wait.”

Martha snorted softly, then gently nudged Joe a third time.

While Adam and Hoss looked on, Joe groaned and shifted from his stomach onto his side. His emerald green eyes met and held Martha’s warm brown ones. He glared at her for a moment, then broke into a wide grin. “Martha Darlin’ . . . you win!” he gasped.

“Now don’t THAT beat all . . . . ” Hoss murmured softly . . . .

 

“Son . . . are you sure?” Ben asked. He and his three sons stood before the corral gate, the following morning. “She’s still one real fine piece of horse flesh, after all’s been said ‘n done, and would make an excellent addition to our breeding stock.”

“I’m sure, Pa,” Joe said as he limped toward the gate, trying his best not to grimace with each step. “Ol’ Martha here’s EARNED her freedom . . . a hundred times over.”

“I hafta agree with Joe, Pa,” Hoss said quietly. “She’s meant t’ run free.”

“The Cartwright boys stand in one accord,” Adam declared, smiling broadly.

Joe lifted the latch and threw the gate wide open. “Go ahead, Martha,” he said, with a smile that lit up his whole face. “You won fair ‘n square.”

The mare paused in the center of the enclosure and looked over at Joe, questioning.

“Yes, I mean it, you great big beautiful gal you!” Joe said. “Now get on with ya!”

Martha lifted her head again, and snorted, before setting off at a dead run. She bolted through the open gate and set off across the field with her head high and her silky mane streaming behind like a banner, without pause or looking back.

 

  
One year later . . . .

“HEY, JOE!” Hoss cried, astonished and awe-struck. “JOE! LOOK!”

Joe was seated on top of the corral fence, trying desperately to catch his breath after a particularly rough ride atop of what Hoss so aptly named “the stubbornest, dadburn, cuss of a jughead since Martha!” His face, his arms, his entire body was drenched with sweat. He had just whipped off his sodden shirt and used it to blot his face.

“JOE!” Hoss cried again. “Y’ GOTTA LOOK!”

He slowly lifted his head, and turned to look in the direction Hoss was pointing. His jaw dropped. For a time he just sat there, too stunned to move or even speak.

There, galloping across the field was Martha, with head held high, and mane flying. A foal followed, running close behind.

“Well, I’ll be a . . . . ” Joe murmured, the instant he regained his voice. He broke into a broad grin when Martha trotted over to the fence and gently nuzzled his hands. “Good to see ya, Martha . . . real good t’ see ya,” he murmured over and over, as he gently stroked her long muzzle. “Came to show me your baby, eh? Well, he’s a beautiful boy, Kid . . . a REAL beautiful boy . . . and he looks just like ya!”

 

  
From the journal of Joseph F. Cartwright, dated July 20, 18--

I honest ‘n truly thought I was seeing things at first . . . .

It was so daggoned hot out there today. Hoss swore up and down the temperature had to be well up over a hundred. I was sitting up on top of the corral fence, trying to catch my breath after that stubborn jughead tossed me for a real loop. For a minute or two there, I thought sure I’d cracked a couple of ribs . . . and maybe my head, too. I heard Hoss calling my name, telling me to look, and when I DID look . . . well lo ‘n behold, there was Martha, even prettier ‘n you please galloping across the field, with her foal trotting along behind.

I can’t remember when I’ve ever seen a gal so pleased with herself, so at peace. A far cry indeed from the steam pouring out of her ears and the murder in her eyes when I slapped that saddle on her back for the first time. Motherhood definitely suits her, and I feel honored that she actually came and brought her baby along to show me. They stayed until this big stallion, who stood a ways off, keeping himself at a respectful distance, called to ‘em. He was a big, handsome galoot, redder than the inside of a real, ripe, juicy watermelon. Martha answered him, then she and the foal turned and trotted off, after him. I hope I see her again someday, but everything inside me tells me I won’t . . . and maybe that’s the way it should be. She’s got her own life now.

Martha, wherever you are, I wish ya all the best. You’re truly one of a kind, Kiddo . . . and I’ll never forget you.

 

  
***The End***

Revised July 2008

 

*********

[i] Johnny Lightly appears in Bonanza Episode #76, “The Horse Breaker,” written by Frank Chase.


End file.
